[Ah see this is where play and reality collide— and divide. No waffling or wistful rumination takes over once crimson eyes fall across the bottom of that page and its punctuating inquiry. As with all things Astarion it's only the performative that comes on with a grand amount of hemming and hawing and sleight-of-hand adjacent noise. The mask. The masquerade— like eyespots feathering a tiger's ears.
The truth, on the other hand, has no such herald.]
no subject
The truth, on the other hand, has no such herald.]
Rialto.